


Long Live The King

by orphan_account



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Magical Boys, Non-Chronological, Non-Linear Narrative, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-07 00:23:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6776512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon entering his third year of high school, Izaya Orihara is given an opportunity-- to have unlimited powers. All he has to do is make a wish, and he does-- to go back in time to redo the day of his life he most regrets: his first meeting with Shizuo Heiwajima.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When It Rains

It never got any easier. It never got any easier to make the right decisions, to see the right path, say the right things. It never got any easier to see the right path or erase it, and it certainly didn’t get any easier to have his heart shattered, figuratively, and his soul shattered, literally, always from _his_ words or _his_ bite. And it definitely would never get any easier, as long as Izaya lived, and relived, to lose _him_.

As a middle schooler, Izaya had found it tedious to play games with multiple routes-- Shinra’s dating sims bore no interest from him except to experiment with how quickly he could get the bad endings. They were just characters, Izaya didn’t understand why Shinra got so upset when he broke one of the girls’ hearts or in some of the more intense visual novels, got them maimed or killed. Even if his friend didn’t see Celty’s face on every one of theirs, he had a feeling the reaction wouldn’t vary much. Perhaps this was some sort of revenge, extreme though it was, for torturing the 2D schoolgirls. At this point, nothing could surprise Izaya-- an eye for an eye, a broken heart for a broken heart. And it wasn’t that he didn’t deserve to have it shattered time and time again, as it was, he probably deserved far worse. The hopelessness, the despair, the uncertainty, the pain-- he deserved it all, every last drop from whoever it was that was pouring the bitter medicine down his throat, tipping his chin back and telling him to pinch his nose, that things would get better if only he suffered through this one more time. Whoever it was: a god, the God, or the universe itself. Was this hell? Had he been sentenced to his fate due to the wickedness done and sins committed in this life, or perhaps some life prior? Was it punishment for not Believing, for not being Faithful, Devout? How many times had Izaya cursed God’s name, spit it out like it was acid on his tongue, challenged the divine and scoffed against the existence of them? Exactly what did he have to do to atone, if there even was a chance? Izaya didn’t know, didn’t know the answer to any of these questions he had had for far too long, and yet no time at all. After all, time meant nothing anymore.

The rain dripping on his face tethered Izaya back to reality, and the cold numbness spreading across reminded Izaya of the torture and interrogation method of pouring water onto the victim’s head-- one drop at a time. Though he had no doubt that it would have driven him insane before, there was nothing past the point of insanity he was currently at, and would be for another few minutes at least. Nothing could hurt worse than the blood-- colder than the rain, slipping under his hands, and seeping into and staining his clothes. It wasn’t his own blood, _that_ he could handle, but it was _his_ , _he_ was bleeding out underneath Izaya, wounds too deep to staunch the bleeding or garner any hope for survival at all. Shinra wasn’t there, he had died long ago, and the only thought Izaya spared for his only friend was a curse at his nonexistence. Struggling, he was struggling to keep himself just on the brink of despair, to not let it overcome him because if it did then _he_ had no chance. Izaya kept himself focused on the damp, dark, yellow of Shizuo’s hair, focused on the shallow breathing he could feel trembling through his own bones, focused on the other’s long lashes sticking together with raindrops that looked like teardrops. But they weren’t, Izaya knew better than to think that they might be. After all, there had been only one time he had seen Shizuo cry.

It had been in frustration. Frustration because Shizuo was not eligible to make a contract, because _“if he’s been protecting me all this time then who the fuck is supposed to protect him?”_ because nothing hurt worse than being helpless over the fate of the one you loved. Izaya knew that all too well, and seeing those tears he had vowed not to tell Shizuo the truth ever again, no matter what the situation. He had thought, previously, that in seeing him die, seeing him despair, seeing him _hate,_ Izaya had seen it all, had ached in the very worst of ways possible, that there was no wound that circumstance could inflict he hadn’t already suffered through. But he was wrong. Seeing Shizuo cry had opened up a new tear in his heart, a large, gaping gash that bled and bled and was still bleeding every time he looked into the other’s eyes. He still saw tears there, he still saw the agony in them and felt the guilt and regret over his honesty burning in the back of his own. Nothing had hurt worse, or would ever hurt worse, than the sounds of choked back sobs coming from Shizuo’s throat, sounds he never thought he would hear and never wanted to hear again. Not even the labored breathing punctuated with the gurgling of and gagging on blood could destroy him the way those few teardrops had.

And Izaya saw the teardrops in Shizuo’s eyes as they blinked below him, and fought against the despair pulsing inside of him, ready to erupt, leaned down to press his forehead to Shizuo’s, eyes closed as not to see the gash on his throat, the pale of his face, the dilation of his pupils. As to not remember being in the same position so many times before, to not think about where he went wrong _again_ , to not realize that no matter how many times he found himself next to or on top of Shizuo, it never got any easier.

The feeling of cool, damp, quivering fingers stroking over and entwining through his caught him off guard, but they were just Shizuo’s, always Shizuo’s, and so he squeezed back gently, feeling the other’s weakening pulse through his skin. A gulp, and then a cough wet with blood that Izaya felt splatter across his face, though he didn’t mind, oh he didn’t mind, and then Shizuo was talking, strained and soft and so unlike the way it should have been, rough and low and intense, that Izaya bit his lip hard enough to draw blood from his own self, in an attempt to ground himself to the situation he was currently experiencing, not the ones he had or would be.

“Izaya…” Another wet cough; Shizuo is choking and gargling on his own blood, on his own life. “Are…” Izaya knew what he was going to try to ask, the words _are you okay_ didn’t cross Shizuo’s lips but Izaya knew what they would have been anyway. The bastard was too predictable, always thinking about others, even on his deathbed.

“I’m fine, not the one whose throat just got cut. Shinra would--” But it’s useless, Shinra _wouldn’t,_ not anymore. Suddenly his throat is closing up, as if he is the one who's just got cut, but it’s not blood suffocating him-- instead, the threat of tears. He won’t cry though, because that would mean Shizuo could cry, and he can’t let that happen. So he squeezes his eyes shut tighter until he sees nothing but black, and has blocked out the last faint grey light struggling to escape the cover of the clouds.

“Sorry that I didn’t know.” It could mean any number of things: know about _her_ , know about _him,_ but most likely it means all of the things it ever could mean, knowing about Izaya’s feelings included. To Shizuo, it probably seems like Izaya had fallen gracelessly, quickly. The other couldn’t possibly understand that it had been like starting a fire in the rain, a battle between the heat and the water using all its force to drown it out. Izaya can feel the slowing of breath, the declining of volume underneath him-- if it weren’t for the fact his ear was mere centimeters away from the blonde’s mouth, he likely wouldn’t have heard him at all.

Izaya doesn’t say anything when he opens his eyes. There’s a trace of a smile on the face below his, and Izaya can’t imagine what is humorous or heartening about the situation; but then again, Shizuo has never failed to surprise him in the most unlikely of times. He raises the hand not entwined with another, larger one to ghost against Shizuo’s cheek. Watered-down blood slips and slides under his fingertips, and Izaya burns the image, the feeling into his mind, along with all the other failures. Because he has failed-- it’s game over, the bad end, and he’ll have to erase his progress and start over. The NPC-- Shizuo -- wouldn’t remember anything, but Izaya would, he would remember everything and still fail. Perhaps he was just that bad at games after all.

A shuddering gasp sounds from Shizuo, and Izaya’s hand moves down to Shizuo’s throat, pressing gently against the increasingly faint pulse. There’s too much to say, and not enough time, and it’s never going to happen exactly like this ever again, so it’s both essential and nonessential that he says everything right now.  
The rain pours harder, striking against Izaya’s skin, bitter and biting. He can’t imagine what it feels like to Shizuo, to have it stinging against his wound, dripping inside of him yet doing nothing to numb the pain like morphine would. The tightness of the other’s grip around his hand strengthens, and his touch is as cold as the rain. It’s warming anyway.

“Sorry that I couldn’t save you.” _Again,_ Izaya thinks. _I’ll do better next time._ “This isn’t how it should have been-- this isn’t what you deserve. I can’t imagine that anything is worse to you than spending… spending this kind of time with someone you h-” But Izaya cuts himself off. Shizuo doesn’t hate him, not this time, and the last thing he needs is for Shizuo’s final, dying thoughts to be those of confusion. He isn’t entirely sure that Shizuo can hear him, anyway; there’s a far-away look in his eyes even though he’s staring directly at Izaya, and his hitched and choked breathing is become even more desperate, his lungs strangling for oxygen flooding them instead of blood.

“Izaya.” The word is not so much spoken as breathed, and not so much heard and felt, the exhale of the syllables brushing against Izaya’s face. Izaya forces himself to keep his eyes open, to _look_ , pushes tears back with all the force of a dam. Unconsciously, his nails bite into the flesh of Shizuo’s hands, but the other doesn’t wince, probably can’t even differentiate it from the rest of the pain. Underneath Izaya, the beat of a heart and the rise and fall of a chest slow to a stop, the grip bracing his hand falls away, and Izaya is left clinging to laxness. He finally lets the tears fall, but he can’t be sure that they are falling at all, the wet of the rain and the sound of the wind mix with any that might have fallen or any sobs he might have made. The hand on Shizuo’s cheek strokes upwards to close dark eyes marred by death.

He’s not sure how long he lays there, on top of the corpse, staring at pale features like he hasn’t already memorized them and clutching at skin like it’s not growing ever colder. There’s a dim awareness of his surroundings-- the rain steadily striking his skin, the snake-like green eyes watching him from the roof of some far-off building. Izaya doesn’t give her the satisfaction of moving, of turning around, of letting his emotions overwhelm him to the point of abandoning his friend to chase after his murderer. She would easily overwhelm him, outmatch him, outsmart him, outrun him-- she already had, after all. Though he wasn’t always internally patient, Izaya had tempered himself into knowing when and how to wait, even before everything that had happened. Before it all, he would wait for his tricks and bait to take effect, and though eager it was rare he would spoil the result by interfering early. If only everything were as simple as it had been back then, loving and toying and laughing and taunting. Sometimes, he forced himself to play that part again (though more so in the beginning than now), making Shizuo hate him and manipulating and orchestrating just for the hell of it. He wouldn’t admit it, but it was to distract himself from the pain and frustration rather than him actually enjoying his old habits any longer. Either resetting whenever he liked, or waiting until things between him and Shizuo got to the point he couldn’t stand it any longer. It hurt just as much as the other dying, but it was a different kind of pain, the kind that taught you the true meaning of masochism.

After he was sure she wasn’t watching him anymore, Izaya dragged himself upwards like he was a puppet detached from his strings for the first time, learning how to stand and walk and _be_ . Allowing himself one last, lingering gaze at Shizuo before he turned his back for the final time in this chance, he depicted to his memory the image of Shizuo’s still corpse, throat slit and his Raijin uniform soaked in the wet of blood and rain. As he lugged himself forwards, his mind was blank, void, empty-- along with the rest of him. He didn’t know where he was going, but his feet drew him in the path he eventually realized led to his own home. It was often where he reset; he had long since memorized the exact moment he went back to, at six in the morning in his bedroom on a crisp September day: the first day of his first year of high school. Mentally, he had long since surpassed the age of a fifteen-year-old, but his acting skills had only sharpened. He figured his real age was that of the longest he had survived, which was only to seventeen, but sometimes, like now, it felt like he had lived since the beginning of the universe itself. And, in some ways, he had.

* * *

  
It isn’t like it was in the movies, like rewinding a tape, or pitch black with numbers and equations swirling and glowing around him. It’s rather like stepping backwards off the edge of a cliff-- a moment of disorientation and then the stomach-wrenching sensation of vertigo. Nothing moves as long as he aims for the same place he started in, but there’s a feeling of extreme compression and tightness in his lungs, his heart stops beating for a split second, his stomach lurches and his body sways. Then, it’s over, and the rain is gone, replaced by a pale pink and orange sunrise that can only be found in the early autumn months. His clothes have been replaced by his ‘default’ outfit-- a loose, v-neck shirt, a pair of black jeans, and most unfortunately, a fur-lined cape and a crown. Izaya blinks hard-- once, twice --, and pushes the memory of Shizuo lying dead on the pavement into the corner of his brain where it is visible only in the peripheral vision of his mind’s eye. Enough so that he can remember while still forgetting. This is another chance, after all. He shoves the cape and crown into his bottom drawer, and pulls on his Raijin uniform instead. It’s the first day of school, and Izaya is determined to get it right.


	2. Start From Scratch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shizuo has his first impression of Izaya, who knows exactly how the cards will fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! As a side note, Shizuo does NOT have his inhuman strength in this AU, just his temper :)

If there was one upturn to his life after all that had happened, it would in the realm of Izaya’s grades. It seemed that no matter what he did, no matter how much he changed, no matter how bad he fucked up, the tests would always be the same. He had long since memorized the answers to nearly every question-- homework, quiz, or test-- of his entire first year of high school. There was no longer a need to study (not that Izaya had in the first place), and it was all as well, since he doubted he could concentrate on anything other than his mission in the first place. Most of his time was spent tracking or gathering information on either Shizuo or one of the she-devils. Occasionally one of the lesser demons or Shinra and Celty as well, but those were the least of his concerns. Which, perhaps made him no better a friend then  _ she _ was, but there just wasn’t enough time, even with all the time the universe could possibly give-- and had given-- to Izaya. 

Speaking of his friend, a bespectacled brown-haired boy was waving enthusiastically to him from under a large tree near the beige concrete wall surrounding the school. Izaya had known exactly where he would be waiting, after over twenty first days at Raijin, and who would be waiting with him. Unlike his first-first day, he wouldn’t ignore the text message pending from Shinra entreating him to meet him and his friend from elementary school a half hour before school started so he could introduce them. After all, first impressions were important, and the “I-don’t-care-enough-to-meet-you” attitude hadn’t made a positive imprint on Shizuo. At all.

The tall, broad-shouldered blond next to the boy who was nearly a head shorter than him was slouching against the tree, his breadth nearly overtaking that of the lean trunk’s. Izaya’s eyes went soft, smile appearing on his face so rehearsed it had become genuine, unlike the edge of a smirk he wore on their second first meeting. Though his heart had already grown soft by then, old habits died hard. But die they had, and now, seeing Shizuo so unaware and naive, so casual and unassuming, he felt the thrum of pain against his ribs, the too-fast and too-hard beat of his heart only quickening his pace rather than slowing it down, as if the iron in his blood had turned magnetic in the presence of Shizuo. 

After the fifth time, the biting grin had disappeared, replaced with a softer smile, and after the eighth the intensity of his eyes had thawed enough to be lit with the smallest spark of sizzling passion, faint enough it was only visible within a distance of a dozen centimeters. It had only happened once that Shizuo had noticed it, remarking that Izaya’s eyes were warmer than he had imaged, as if red-hot coals resided behind brown irises. It had only happened once that Shizuo had gotten close enough to see. And after the that, after the tenth time, a routine had settled, authenticity established and lines flowing out of Izaya’s mouth beyond the point of memorized to that of naturalness.  After the eighteenth time he had lost count, all of the beginnings blurring together into an almost comforting sameness. Of course, things swerved and swayed and varied after the few months, the sameness of the differentiation nothing near comforting, however. Quite the opposite, it was the most frightening thing Izaya ever experienced aside from losing Shizuo-- the uncertainty, the unfamiliar, the untouched. Like a dream where he was walking along a familiar hallway only for it to sudden shroud in darkness and give out underneath his feet, leaving him stumbling around blind and unaware of what monsters lay hidden outside the reach of light. That was his reality, and would be soon. It was more of a nightmare, really, but one Izaya was willing to endure.

But for now, it wasn’t. For now, Shizuo was standing, arms crossed, just mere meters in front of him, eyes downcast and unfocused, radiating boredom. For now, Shinra was yelling “Izaya! Izayaaaaaa!!!” and Shizuo was turning, seemingly in slow-motion, to glance around for the recipient of the shout. For now, Izaya’s heart began to pound even more frantically warm brown eyes met his own, and blinked heavily while Izaya’s didn’t at all. For now, he was making his way towards the odd-looking pair, words flowing out of his mouth like someone had accidentally passed a censor on an automatic sink. For now, he knew the ropes, knew the routine. For now, he was fine.

“Nice to finally meet you, Shizuo. From the way Shinra talks about you, it seems like he at least is capable of having good taste in friends, which you wouldn’t know from just looking at me.” He offered a lopsided grin, glancing up at Shizuo through his bangs, eyebrows raised. No more “Shizu-chan,” no more “I’ve heard quite a bit about you,” said reproachably with a dangerous glimmer visible both in his eyes and flash of teeth. And in turn, no more enduring growls and glares, dodging swings, laughing at the other’s frustration when he misses, laughing at the shortness of his temper and rage in his eyes. Never again did he want to be on the receiving end of Shizuo’s fury, unless to remind himself of all the ways it hurt besides-- and more than-- bruises and broken bones. 

Shizuo gave Izaya the once-over, uncertainty readable in his the crinkle of his eyes and rumple in the line of his lips. Shinra continued to beam, either ignoring or oblivious to his friend’s hesitation which was no doubt due to the unsavory remarks Izaya knew he made about him  quite frequently.  Not that they were inaccurate from what Shinra had experienced; izaya couldn’t blame him for that. In some ways it made it easier, easier to know that all the times it had gone wrong it hadn’t been entirely his fault, only ninety-nine percent. And even then, what would happen to Shinra would be at least partially his fault too; the barest feelings of resentment would be replaced by guilt in due time.

“Look at that, Shizuo! Look at that, Izaya is being courteous for once. Seems he means it too! You should feel honored, he’s usually much more--” Shinra was interrupted by a sharp elbow to his ribs, and instead exclaimed “my costae! My costae!” doubling over as soon as Izaya’s arm returned to its casual linger at his side.

“I wouldn’t take anything he says too seriously. I might have acted unsavory in the past, but I figure high school’s a good a fresh start as any. Besides, if you’ve been friends with this geek, you should know that the only person he’s capable of seeing any good in is his Celty.” The crooked grin made its return, emitting nervous uncertainty and self-consciousness rather than the condescension and arrogance that would have accompanied what would have been a smirk had he tightening his face, raised an eyebrow, and narrowed his eyes ever-so-slightly. It had taken practice, oh so much practice, to be able to untrain his face from defaulting to patronization, from automatically quirking his mouth and into a smug, all-knowing, jagged grin ant into sincerity. The strain of conscious effort it had taken the first few times to soften his gaze and fully relax his shoulders without the tightness of anticipation and readiness to dodge the second of a threat had eventually dissipated, but it had been harder than Izaya initially anticipated. Undoing the avatar that had melded so well with his self he had forgotten how to be anything else had left him feeling raw, like someone had ripped off a layer of his skin, leaving him exposed to damages and flinching with every movement. And it had been like that, at first. It had left him awkward to the point it seemed like he was straining to pretend to be someone else, leaving a bad taste in the mouth of anyone he interacted with, as well as his own.

The knife in his pocket weighed heavily, dragging him back to reality. It wasn’t to use against Shizuo, not anymore, but there were other, more dangerous things out there; the need for protection hadn’t vanished, only shifted. But he wouldn’t need it, not today. Not if everything went right.

Shizuo’s mouth curved into a dubious frown, eyebrows lowered guardedly, eyes glancing distrustfully from Shinra to Izaya.   
“See what you did, Shinra. Now he’s going to think I’m some kind of monster.” 

Finally, Shizuo spoke up, eyes boring into Izaya’s forehead, refusing to meet his own. “You don’t seem very monstrous.” The hesitant, short phrase came out so low that it seemed almost like a growl, albeit a non-threatening one. Izaya’s heartbeat quickened even more in his chest, his ribs and lungs feeling like they were fragile enough to shatter at any moment, if Shizuo said even another word. Their eyes met for a second, and the laugh that poured out of Izaya’s chest seemed to exhale ten pounds of weight along with it, the relief permeating the air around the trio and carrying over the fence with enough volume to make several other early-comers glance in their direction.

“I’m glad.” And he was, he was glad. Even though as long as he kept his approach the same, there was very little variation in the response, it never got any less anxiety-provoking to talk to someone who was meeting him for the first time, despite Izaya having gone through countless first times on his end. Sometimes he wished Shizuo would remember. Mostly, he didn’t.

“Perfect!” Shinra exclaimed, clapping his hands together with enough force he pulled them apart hastily, shaking them out, red palms facing the grass underneath their feet. “I’m glad we’re all acquainted. We have a lot to catch up on! I’m surprised you dyed your hair, Shizuo! And Izaya, you actually showed up! And in uniform too! I guess you were serious about making a change to yourself.”

“You’re not a natural blond?” Izaya mused idly, as if he didn’t know any better. As if he hadn’t combed through the other’s hair with his fingers, pressing against the dark roots and splaying his fingers outwards to massage Shizuo’s scalp. As if he knew nothing about the blond, save for fragments of information from Shinra between rants on Celty. As if he didn’t know everything.

“Nah,” Shizuo replied, scratching his head as though he had suddenly remembered he had hair. “People kept picking fights with me in middle school, so a friend suggested I dye my hair as a warning to keep away with me. I was pretty against it at first, but then I just said ‘fuck it.’ Wasn’t worth it to keep getting into trouble, anyway.”

Izaya nodded, keeping his face as blank as possible. Shizuo would go into detail about his temper on his own terms, on his own time. It was better coming straight from him, unprompted, anyway. It was better to have him trust Izaya enough to open up rather than distrusting him due to immediate interrogation. For some, it might be hard to know everything about a person without them knowing a single thing about them. Yet, for Izaya, he still managed to glean something new about Shizuo every time, and even when the other shared something that Izaya already knew, it was like the first time all over again. Connections, friendships, trust-- they never grew old, as he had found out. Young forever. Just like himself.

“It looks good on you,” he commented, studying the way the light streaming through the leaves of the the tree above them glanced off Shizuo’s hair, making it appear paler than the yellow it was. The feeling of the soft hair under his fingers brushed against Izaya’s fingertips like a phantom limb, and they curled reflexively against the notice of the others.

Something in between a snort and a ‘thanks’ was the response Shizuo gave him. The blush on his cheeks could have easily been from standing too long in the sun, if he hadn’t been in the shade at that moment. As it was, it was nearly invisible, and Shinra seemed oblivious as always to the brief moment of flustered tension between his friends.

“So, showing up for classes is new for you, huh?” The question would have taken Izaya by surprise were he not expected it; the startled blink of his eyes and cock of his head had become spontaneous in an entirely different way. 

Izaya chuckled, rubbing his hand against his eyes before looking down at the ground in purposeful embarrassment. “Yeah, half the time I only showed up for our biology club, which was just the two of us,” he said, gesturing towards Shinra. 

“Isn’t that where he got stabbed?” Shizuo’s gruff tone was laced with concern and an undertone of something that wasn’t quite anger. Izaya was fairly certain he wasn’t aware of the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening under the strain.

Shinra interrupted, just as cheerful as ever despite the heavy-handed topic. “Yep!”

Groaning, Izaya put up a hand to stop the boy before he could continue further. “Shinra, you never give the full context.” He looked pointedly at the other before turning to face Shizuo, whose hands were gradually unclenching. “This idiot jumped in front of a knife meant for  _ me _ \-- I had conned some guy out of his money, and when I wouldn’t give it back he decided using a kitchen knife to gut me was the obvious solution. So the scar on his torso really should be on mine, although I’m sure Celty thinks it’s incredibly attractive.” Ignoring Shinra’s sputtering and flushed face, Izaya wrapped up the story. “And so, I took the fall for him, bastard dad didn’t press charges, everyone forgot what happened, the end. Long story short, I guess you’re not the only one who has a history of getting into fights, so don’t be embarrassed about it or anything.” 

The monologue still has elements of an Izaya he could never truly get rid of in it-- deadpan humor and sarcasm, comments targeted towards purposefully riling up his friend, low-grade insults, and a lighthearted yet mocking tone that brushed off the situation as less terrifying and critical than it had been in the moment and days that followed. He would never get rid of his old self entirely; there were parts of himself that  _ were _ authentic, no matter how unsavory, or so ingrained that taking them out would be like removing Izaya’s own heart. Not that he was entirely sure he had one left, but in the off chance he did, he figured he had better keep it intact. Despite everything, he was still Izaya Orihara, and he wanted Shizuo to care about  _ him _ , not someone else with the same face, the face that was now turned towards Shinra, grin playful and teasing, not taunting. The boy was stammering something unintelligible, something about how he would never be so decent as to let Celty look at his bare torso. Rolling his eyes, he turned them sidelong to look at Shizuo, whose expression was uncharacteristically neutral-- lips flat, eyebrows neither raised nor drawn in. He could have almost been a sculpture, for the way his jaw squared out even when relaxed, the way his nose thinned out when nostrils weren’t flared. Izaya turned quickly back to Shinra, lest his breath catch in his throat for staring too long, or Shizuo grew uncomfortable.

There was a pause in the conversation for a moment; only the light whistling of the wind in the leaves above them and idle chatter of friends as more and more students started to pour onto the campus were to be heard. It seemed neither of them were making eye contact with any other; Shinra was lost in what was most likely a daydream, Shizuo was staring at a point somewhere above Izaya’s head as if seriously contemplating the previous conversation, and Izaya’s eyes were fixated on the folds of Shizuo’s uniform slacks. The silence was neither peaceful nor stressful, it felt natural if not a slight bit tense lasted only perhaps a minute-- not nearly enough time for Izaya’s thoughts to warp and reshape themselves into paranoia or worry. Shizuo was the one to break it, clearing his throat and glancing around as though he were afraid someone would overhear his words.

“You’re both good friends, taking a knife and taking the blame for each other. I--” but it came to no surprise to Izaya when the clang of the bell signalling five minutes until class began cut the blond off. Whatever he was going to say was lost and forgotten as the three said their goodbyes and began drifting off to separate classrooms. It wasn’t anything to dwell on though; even if he didn’t get closure, he had at one point. 

_ “I wish I had something like you guys have.”  _

**Author's Note:**

> This was probably confusing, but I swear everything will unfold and make sense eventually!


End file.
